


Memories

by Nana_41175



Category: Versailles no Bara | Rose of Versailles
Genre: F/M, Reincarnation, Romance, financial world, modern day AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nana_41175/pseuds/Nana_41175
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four individuals seem bound by fate to recreate tragic events from more than two hundred years ago, but can certain memories help bring about a different ending this time around? A recreation of the Rose of Versailles in modern-day France.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Translated into 
> 
> German by Little Leaf at http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2965178/1/Memories
> 
>    
> Korean by BeruBara at http://blog.naver.com/kishasha?Redirect=Log&logNo=150152156988
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much, dears!

It all started with that painting, I suppose. 

On that particularly bright Friday morning, I looked down onto my hastily scribbled schedule for the day to find it sitting there—"viewing of 'M. Armand' painting"—the sole appointment from 9:00 am to 12:00 noon.

It seemed unusual even if the Boss were on one of her rare holidays to be cleaning out an entire morning's worth of appointments just to view a painting, but the location of the painting as well as the supposed painter were all the explanation needed for the time set aside.

I had heard of this particular oil painting from Mademoiselle Antoinette herself a few months ago. She had come to visit the Boss in the office for a brief chat, and it had been she who had suggested that the Boss take a look at it.

She had laughed when she saw the Boss raise a skeptical eyebrow at her words. "Exceptional," she had continued. "You should go see for yourself if you doubt my words. Perhaps then you will be convinced that I have not been joking when I say she looks exactly like you. Who knows? Maybe she's an ancient ancestor, for all we know?"

Indulgent as the Boss was to the lively Mademoiselle, her schedule had not permitted an excursion outside the city for activities not involving business. Until now.

I myself had just arrived from the Paris office. Stepping into the familiar, cool recesses of her spacious apartment, I found her bent over her laptop, as usual. Sunlight slanted into the room from an open window, turning her hair into a mass of molten gold. If only she could see herself at that moment. But then, she never does.

She spoke without looking up, "Ah, you're here. How are things?"

I gave a brief summary of the goings-on in the office. To all this, she nodded absently, still lost in the contents of the computer screen before her.

Finally, she said, "I'm sorry to have to yank you all the way here on such short notice, but I might as well ask you to take a look at that painting, just in case I might decide to add it to the collection."

I nodded, understanding perfectly. As her personal assistant, I was used to making the occasional art purchase on her behalf. Majority of the pieces from the family art collection, though, was managed by her father and his associates in the company.

Seeing that she was already dressed (in casual, loose white blouse and dark slacks with a light sweater draped over her shoulders) but not yet ready to depart, I made for some conversation. "I take it this particular oil painting is late eighteenth century, purportedly done by the artist Armand. If this is true, then it's a rare collector's piece."

She looked up from the screen and smiled. "That's what Fersen said. I told him I had to let Father see it first before I do anything."

"Oh."

 _Fersen_. That particular name was finding its way more and more into the Boss' conversation these days.

I felt the hair on my nape stand as the Boss fixed me with a curious eye, one brow arched, and I realized that she had sensed something from my monosyllabic response to her words.

 _She is really too astute_ , I thought with an inward sigh. I returned her gaze with one as bland as I can make it to be, hoping she would veer away from asking questions.

Relieved, I saw her turn back to the computer as she turned the machine off.

"Come on then," she said, standing up in one fluid motion.

Outside, she casually tossed me the keys to her car—another surprise. She usually refused to let anyone drive her around. I wondered briefly if she was feeling okay.

The drive to the airfield where the private company jet was kept was a quiet one. I was used to the Boss lapsing into brief periods of pensive silence, but not this long.

Which could mean only one thing.

"I take it you've not been sleeping again," I said, before I could restrain myself.

For a moment, she did not say a word; she merely tilted her head a fraction and regarded me from the corner of her eye. Then, "that tone of voice has not been in evidence for quite some time."

I almost smiled at her wry tone. I opted to shrug instead. "I'm just concerned," I returned nonchalantly.

She nodded. "Right. As you always say," she said.

For the thousandth time, I wondered how she could ever question my concern for her. _If only you know how much…_ I would have wanted to say, but so far, I had not dared.

"And I'll tell you what I've always told you, Andre Grandier," she said, her voice hardening into that familiar steely tone that heralded a reproach, "you take care of my affairs, and I can take care of myself."

Well, it was quite clear that something was pissing her off. I let it go for a while and concentrated on the road.

From the airfield, the jet took us to Arras, where the Boss' family had a chateau that they occupied on rare vacations, but today we did not have time to make a stop there. From the landing strip, a car was waiting to take us to the mansion of Monsieur Lasonne, the art dealer.

M. Lasonne was a big, slightly rotund man with a mustache and an air of authority about him that probably helped sell a fortune in art pieces. Knowing that his present client was not to be taken in by airs, though, he opted to be natural and friendly.

"Ah, yes," he said to me upon the Boss' introduction that I was her personal assistant. Whether he thought it odd that I was servicing a woman was not seen in his countenance, and I had grown accustomed enough not to mind people's speculations.

After a courteous round of drinks and small talk as well as a brief tour of the old portions of the mansion, we finally proceeded to the drawing room where the piece was waiting, propped onto a large easel.

"I swear, Madam," said Lasonne, taking off the white linen that was draped over the painting, "when I first saw you at the door, I felt as though she herself had suddenly come to life and sprung out of the canvas. The likeness is so striking…"

From the tilt of her lips, I could tell that the Boss was slightly amused. First Mademoiselle Antoinette, now this person. What could the mystery be?

Then I saw the Boss look at the canvas and the small smile disappeared from her face. I looked over her shoulder and saw the canvas for the first time…and felt as though the wind had been knocked out of me.

There she was, astride a rearing horse, dressed in battle gear with a sword raised in her right hand. The curling, golden locks of hair fell gracefully onto her shoulders—the same ones a few inches away from me.

But it was the face, with those sapphire eyes…so incredibly the same…

All of a sudden, I felt as though the room was receding, as though a tunnel had suddenly sprung between myself and the others in the room, distancing them. I could hear Lasonne's voice as if from far away, "Of course, the artist Armand was a prominent portrait painter in the latter years of Louis XVI, but the Revolution had destroyed most of his work. I have consulted several experts, and they are most enthusiastic about the authenticity of this piece…"

"Who is she?" I could hear the Boss ask faintly.

"It is not known. Here she is depicted as Mars, the God of War, but who she is in real life is most likely to remain hidden…"

I could feel a headache suddenly coming on, and realized that I was starting to sweat. All of a sudden, the room seemed very hot.

"…a great stroke of luck, really…very recent find…evidence of being moved from one place to another, but still remarkably well-preserved…"

The words were gradually mixing together into a jumble of nonsensical sound, and for a moment, I was afraid. Afraid I might remember something…many things…about to burst forth from my mind like a dam-

I quickly came around to find the Boss shaking me slightly on the shoulder. "Andre, are you alright?" she asked, her voice full of concern.

I swallowed hard and nodded. The room and everyone in it had gone back to the way they were. They way they had always been.

"You dropped your cell," the Boss pointed out, and I bent down hastily to retrieve the phone from the thickly carpeted floor.

She tuned back to Lasonne. "I'll buy it," she said simply.

* * *

The trip back to Paris in the late afternoon was once again uncharacteristically silent, but this time, I contributed little to break it.

 

That painting…it was just too strange! But the resemblance was just too striking to be coincidental. If I had not known any better, I would have thought it a recent portrait of the Boss rather than one over two centuries old.

In the plane, sitting across from me, the Boss was wrapped in her own thoughts, eyes hooded, face closed to scrutiny. It was evident that she did not want to talk about the painting or anything pertaining to the trip to Arras, and I could see that I was not going to be needed as soon as we reached Paris. Indeed, she bade me goodnight once the car reached her apartment building.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she threw over her shoulder as she went inside.

And that left me with some hours in my hands that evening. Dead hours.

I was used to being busy until well past midnight, sometimes even until dawn, just taking care of all the Boss' affairs left in my hands, but an early night was something of a novelty.

I guess I might try calling Rosalie, the Boss' secretary, to ask her if she wanted to have dinner out (as friends, of course) and to discuss the latest that needed to be done in the office, but that was too trivial. As if we could not sneak some time here and there from our busy schedules everyday to work it out. Besides, Rosalie could be out tonight with some of her girl friends. God knows she has more friends than I do.

Ah, but I'm afraid I am painting a very poor picture of myself! Here, let me reintroduce you to me: I am Andre Grandier, 33 years of age, single, male, tallish, with dark brown hair and green eyes, the personal assistant of Francoise de la Saigne (Mademoiselle, I might add, as she wasn't married, but then, nobody dared call her Mademoiselle to her face) who, in turn, was the managing director of de La Saigne Industries. The Boss was one year my junior, but of course, nobody would have guessed that by the way she commanded her staff.

By all accounts, the lady I served was imposing, but she wasn't always so. I would know, as I practically grew up with her in her father's mansion.

As the grandson of the head housekeeper, I was handed over to my grandmother for general care after my parents died in an auto accident when I was just eight years old. Naturally, Granny had tried to raise me as best she could but I was only one of her worries as she tried to make ends meet. That was when Monsieur de la Saigne himself stepped in.

With school fees and allowances taken care of, I was asked to do the family a simple favor, to befriend and accompany the precocious youngest daughter in her daily activities. Of course, they took me in for Granny's sake, as she had been with them nearly all her adult years, but I was thankful all the same.

The family only had daughters, and by the time the last one was born, Monsieur was resigned to the fact that he would have to raise this little one to take charge of the company as though she were the son he never had.

That was also one of the reasons why Monsieur had needed me to be there for Francoise. "She has no brothers," her father had said, "and she will need all the help she can get in dealing with men. She will have to get used to them, as her future will probably have a lot to do with managing people. Do you understand, Andre?"

I said I did. As it turned out, I was to spend nearly all my life with the Boss, and I would not have it any other way. I graduated from university with a degree in business management, but in the end, it was to her side that I volunteered to go to. When her father had heard of my decision, he had rejoiced; nobody knew Francoise as well as I did. I would be a great help to her as her personal assistant, a trusted aide who knew her quirks and would be able to meet her rigorous schedules in the company.

The Boss herself, though she did not say a word when she found out, seemed pleased by my decision.

As for myself, I could only say this: I would have given anything to be with her, for by the time I graduated from university, I had fallen in love.

Except that nobody knew.

Nobody needed to know. At least, not now.

My phone was ringing, and I could see that the Boss and I had a lot of explaining to do to Monsieur de la Saigne over the sudden and totally unexpected purchase of a very expensive oil painting that afternoon.


	2. Chapter 2

I left Andre with the car and proceeded into the apartment alone. I never realized that the day would be so exhausting, considering that I had but one appointment in contrast to my usual schedule. 

After I was inside my suite of rooms, I leaned back against the closed doors and willed myself to calm down.

That painting! _What on earth…!_ Surely it must be a coincidence—as coincidental as the dreams that I had been having for months, perhaps?

Andre, with his sharp eyes that missed nothing, was right. I had not been sleeping well for sometime, and the dreams were the main reason why. No sooner would I close my eyes and I would see myself somewhere else, dressed in a stiff, white waistcoat of a uniform, with a sword—a genuine sword—at my side, walking along endless corridors in a huge palace with uniformed guards saluting everywhere I went.

Sometimes, I would find myself in these dreams on horseback, riding across a city with brick and stone buildings and not the towers of steel and glass of present-day downtown Paris. At other times I would find myself issuing orders to a platoon of men—orders such as I could never give in waking moments.

And I had a different name in these dreams.

 _What could it all mean?_ Every morning, I would wake up feeling exhausted, as though I had been leading another life while I slept. I would try recalling if I had had other dreams during the night—normal ones-about work, my family and friends, and I could not remember having any.

All I could remember was being this lady dressed as a man, in a resplendently white uniform with a sword. I could remember being addressed to as Commandant. I was there to protect someone very important.

Only now, wide awake, I could not remember all the details of the dreams.

And as for that painting, now that I had seen it, I did not know what to think. Fersen seemed to want me to see it, hoping for a response, but what sort of response was he expecting? Ever the art enthusiast, had it been Antoinette who told him so that he would ask me to look at it?

 _Here I go again_ , I thought, feeling the familiar, tearing ache inside every time I thought of Fersen.

Of Fersen and Antoinette.

This ache inside me was relatively new, and I hated it.

I briefly wondered if this painting had been a ploy of Fersen's to distract me from the rumors that were swiftly dogging him and Antoinette these past few weeks. Knowing Fersen, I doubt if he could ever stoop to these tactics. Still, the rumor was potentially scandalous, if not downright dangerous for the companies.

They were being seen with each other too often. That, in itself, was no big issue under normal circumstances, but why must they do it almost on the eve of Antoinette's wedding to the heir of the corporation?

It was disturbing to see how Antoinette was looking so happy every time she was with Fersen. That sparkle was distinctly lacking whenever she was with her fiance. Nobody was as transparent was she, and I feared that it would be her undoing.

The elders in the company and Auguste himself may not suspect anything yet, but I knew all about this saga from the very beginning. I knew how they met, Fersen and Antoinette. I was present at that party some months back, but I think it would be more appropriate if I started from the very beginning…

* * *

If you could remember that merger five months ago—the one that made headlines in the business world. Yes, the one where the de Brun group of companies (by which de la Saigne Industries was but a subsidiary of) acquired Lorraine Industries, that rising star of a corporation from Austria. It was all made possible because of the promise of marital ties between Auguste de Brun, grandson of our present CEO, and Antoinette, one of the many daughters (and heiresses) of the Iron Lady, Therese Lorraine, head of Lorraine Industries. 

It was quite a match, requiring the full exercise of wily maneuvers and skilled negotiations as though a treaty were being struck between two nations.

Auguste de Brun, who had just turned thirty-six, was the despair of his grandfather. Auguste's own father had died very early and unexpectedly, and there had not been uncles to take up the line of succession. It was said that Auguste would rather prefer the company of books than stick his nose into the business, or find himself a suitable wife.

At least the latter problem had been solved, all thanks to that vacation Antoinette had taken the previous summer to tour France's art museums and, incidentally or not, to represent her mother in one of the many parties thrown by the main office upon her arrival.

Coincidentally or not, Auguste had also been in attendance in one of those parties—surprising, as he rarely bothered to. This had led everyone to believe that the hand of his grandfather—seemingly invisible for the moment but surely present—had a far-reaching hold than we might have suspected.

I could remember that the blond and lovely Antoinette had been sweet and poised, yet alluringly uncertain and vulnerable at that party. I really didn't know why, but it was pretty clear that she had warmed up to me instantly. Initially glued to the side of her mother's attaché, Mercy d'Argenteau, she had finally detached herself and made her way over to my side and Andre's. She very sweetly remarked what a lovely party it was.

After the necessary introductions, she had exclaimed, "Francoise de la Saigne! I have heard so much about you. A very clever director, though I never expected you to be so young."

It was very easy for her to make lively conversation with people. She had this way about her that made one feel exulted and special whenever she chanced to speak to you. But of course, things had to be cut short as others started flocking around her, and very soon, she was led away for even more important introductions up the company ladder.

"She's very charming," remarked Andre as we watched her shake the hand of Louis de Brun himself.

"Very," I agreed, sipping my champagne.

The meeting between Antoinette and Auguste had been affable at best, but that was enough to start the lengthy negotiations from both sides of the net. I knew that negotiations were progressing as Antoinette came—or perhaps, _was sent_ might be a better choice of words—to France more and more to represent her mother.

Each time we met at a party, she would delightedly exclaim, "there you are, Francoise! I was looking all over for you." And we would talk until somebody came along to take her away.

"Mademoiselle Lorraine seems to have become good friends with you," observed Father approvingly at one point. "It's a good sign."

"Of what?" I wanted to know, but he did not answer. Instead, he encouraged me to make the most of it.

And that was how I came to regard the girl with interest and pity. No doubt, she was not stupid nor unsophisticated, and I felt sure that she knew what was going on behind the scenes. I had initially thought that she might just turn out to be one those women who would welcome such an opportunity, such a match. But as one got to know her better, one would realize that she was not of that mold.

In fact, in reality, she was very much like a child in certain aspects. I would find out much later that she had willingly done everything to please her mother.

During the odd day when I was free and she was in Paris, I would accompany her to the art galleries in the afternoons and the opera in the evenings. One afternoon, as we sat in one of those open air cafes dotting the tree-lined avenues close to the galleries and I had just finished giving some instructions to Andre over the phone, I looked up to find her staring at me from across the table.

"I envy you, Francoise," she suddenly said.

"Me?" I asked, amused, "whatever for?"

She shrugged her elegant shoulders. "Oh, your freedom and the life you lead, I suppose," she said. "Look at you: the confident, successful, beautiful businesswoman, virtually the managing director of a company. To have accomplished something like that at your age. It's extraordinary."

I thought of telling her about the long, grueling hours under my father's tutelage for as long as I could remember, as well as dealing with the ceaseless problems inside a company consisting of thousands of people, but I thought twice about scaring her.

"Everything's got a price, and believe me, I've paid mine," I opted to say instead. "My life is not as glamorous as you might think it is. Nor is it easy."

"I know, I know," said Antoinette, nodding. "Still. I wish I _can_ be as strong as you are, able to fend off the world and all, and more. I guess-"and here, she suddenly broke into a rueful laugh, "—I guess what I really want to say is, I'm glad to have a friend like you here."

It was only later that I learned from Andre that Auguste had proposed to her, and she had accepted.

* * *

The engagement was announced very soon after that afternoon in the café and announcement of the merger followed almost at its heels. For a while, Antoinette had fallen out of reach because she had been busy with the wedding plans. Auguste, deeming that his mission had been accomplished, had gone back to his world of books. 

Then one evening, she called me.

"Hi, it's me. Are you doing anything tonight?" she asked, excitement clearly in her voice.

"No, nothing much," I said, pushing away the stacks of paperwork that I had brought home from the office. The Swedish office had sent a new partner, a certain Monsieur L. Fersen, over to look into the company operations, and I had already asked Rosalie to coordinate with his secretary for a lunch appointment.

"Fantastic!" she exclaimed over the phone. "Would you like to accompany me to a masquerade party? We don't have to dress up much. Regular eveningwear will do. Oh, and I'll come around to pick you up in an hour, all right?"

The exclusive, fancy party was the idea of a group of bored Parisian socialites. Naturally, as the future bride of Auguste de Brun, Antoinette would be getting invitations for this kind of nonsense. Due to my unfailing policy of never showing up, invitations for me had trickled to a stop a long time ago.

Too late to start concocting excuses as I had already told her I wasn't doing anything, I resigned myself to get up and get dressed. I got on the first dress I could lay my hands on in the cabinets–a Dior white evening suit (slacks, of course, as I never wore skirts), simple and graceful in line. A slight touch of make-up, a few strokes of the brush applied to hair and I was ready in no time.

When she came to pick me up, she had arrived in a taxi. To my arguments that we take my car at least, she merely laughed and said, "Relax, Francoise! We need to travel incognito if we don't want the Office to come howling after us. Auguste and Grandpapa don't know I've taken the evening off. Even Mercy doesn't know. Come on, it will be such fun!"

The party was held in one of the socialites' expensive and lavish apartments in Ile St. Louis. A small, silly party where everybody knew everyone else, masks put on or not.

 _So much for Auguste and Grandpapa not knowing,_ I thought. _They'll find out as soon as these people start to talk tomorrow._

Still, Antoinette was thrilled at the thought of anonymity, whether the whole thing was an illusion or not, and she had very gamely put on a pair of dark paper glasses to mask her eyes.

It was not the time or place to ask her how she was doing. The loud music and dancing ensured that conversation would be difficult. And Antoinette herself would be difficult to keep to one's side. No sooner had we entered the suite then a flock of masked women descended upon us. Pretty soon, Antoinette was made to circulate the room for chit chat while I got the astonished, "Francoise! What on earth are you doing here? _Not_ that you're not a sight for sore eyes, of course, but it's really been so long since we've last seen you in one of these soirees!"

After other greetings along the same lines as well as various short conversations with acquaintances, I finally got enough room to move to the sofa with some champagne. Sighing, I let my gaze wander as I planned my leave of this place as soon as possible. I would have to ask Andre to come along later with a car and whisk me away.

While going through the crowd idly, my eyes alighted on a masked man in a tuxedo whom I had never seen before. He seemed to know me, for as he met my gaze, he gave me a little nod. He moved on to talk to a woman near him.

I frowned as I followed his graceful, unhurried movements across the room. Fashionable brown hair, a tall, sturdy frame. A full, firm mouth underneath the mask. I could not come up with anyone who could fit the specific features of this particular man, and after a while, I let it go.

When the dancing recommenced, with the stranger taking Antoinette's hand, I decided I had performed my obligations and I made up my mind to call Andre.

"You've got to get me out of here," I said as he answered his phone.

"Where are you exactly?" he wanted to know.

I gave him the address of the apartment. He jotted it down, and I could hear the laughter in his voice as he said, "that ought to teach you a lesson: bring me along next time!"

"Very funny," I returned. "I wasn't even planning to come here. I had to work the Sweden papers tonight, as you very well know. It was only because Antoinette had asked—"

I stopped short then because I just saw the subject of our conversation stop dancing abruptly. She turned to go out to the terrace, with the stranger in tow.

"Let's talk later," I said to Andre. "Just come over here as soon as you can."

There was something wrong with the way Anoinette had hurried to the terrace. And that man seemed to be getting too sticky.

Walking over to the glass doors that led to the terrace, I saw them by the balcony. The man had his hand on Antoinette's shoulder, and he was leaning in toward her.

The next minute, I had stepped out and called firmly, "Antoinette. I think it's time we're going."

There was a soft gasp as they put some distance between them. I could see Antoinette's mask in the man's hands.

"Fra—Francoise," Antoinette stammered, blushing as I advanced. "This gentleman was just asking for an introduction…"

"Oh, good," I said politely as I turned to him. "Let me introduce you to her then. She is Mademoiselle Antoinette Lorraine, fiancée of Auguste de Brun. And you are?"

Upon hearing this, there was a sharp intake of breath from the man, but he recovered very quickly. "My apologies. I didn't know," he said. "How very convenient for all of us to be meeting here!"

I frowned as I repeated. "You are…?"

"Fersen. Lars Fersen," he said. "And you are Francoise de la Saigne."

I couldn't believe my ears. "You're L. Fersen…from the Swedish office!" I asked incredulously.

He nodded, smiling, and took off his mask. An astonishingly handsome face was revealed. "Madamoiselle Lamorielle from your office has called to confirm that we are to have lunch this Saturday at eleven," he said in impeccable French.

* * *

The grim atmosphere that pervaded during the ride back home was almost palpable. It was enough to stop Andre from asking any questions, anyway. 

After a long silence, Antoinette spoke up hesitantly, "he…nothing happened, Francoise."

I turned to her. "Of course nothing happened," I said.

"Honestly, he didn't do anything except ask me who I was and removed my mask. I'm sure there's nothing wrong with that. He's bound to know, anyway," said Antoinette, like a child who was intercepting a scolding before she even got one.

I sighed. "I believe you, Antoinette," I said softly. "There is no need to justify anything to me, but I hope that you will understand that different people will take things differently. You will see that people from the de Brun offices are strange that way. At least nobody noticed the episode, so there wasn't any harm done."

Of course, what I couldn't really tell her were the subtle hypocrisies that lay just below the surface of polished society. Scandal was a favorite dish of the rich and the bored, though they would expect to get away with anything so long as it was done discreetly. But then, I would not think Antoinette to be too innocent of this unspoken double standard. And it would be hilarious for me, a Parisian, to pass judgment on her.

She was actually free to do what she liked; her only problem would be to face up to consequences. Monumental ones, in her case, and it was because of these consequences that I feared for her.

In the dim coolness of the car, she looked at me miserably, and I could see that she was about to say something in response to the remark that I had just made. She changed her mind at the last minute and sat back in the shadows of the car.

* * *

The next day, Lars Fersen was formally introduced to the company heads during a staff meeting. As a representative from Sweden's newly opened branch, he was to stay for some months here in France to take in the operations of the de Brun group of companies. He was to start with Victor Girodelle's operations, followed by mine, and transferring to the main headquarters afterwards. 

He had behaved impeccably when he was introduced to Antoinette in front of her fiance's family, and acted as though they had seen each other only that morning instead of on a balcony during the previous evening.

Over time, I came to see that he was indeed an exemplary man- a gentleman, if such a man still existed in this world, highly intelligent, witty and certainly attractive. As he spent those months in the de la Saigne offices, he had become a close friend of mine as well.

 _Too close_ , I thought. _We have become too close now. None of the mess that I am currently in is his fault. It is entirely mine. I have allowed myself to fall in love with him. When or how it had come about, I have no idea. It just…happened…_

Remembering the way Andre's face had frozen for an instant at the mention of Fersen's name only this morning made me feel squeamish and uncomfortable. _Have I been that obvious?_ I thought as I felt the first pangs of mortification.

I dared not ask any more from Andre.

Of course, with the way Antoinette and Fersen were being seen together so often, people were bound to notice soon. It would be catastrophic to the companies if the paparazzi were to take it up. Knowing Antoinette, who was still flushed with her newfound happiness over an intimacy that was obviously developing, would probably not be able to realize the possible consequences right now. I would have to talk to Fersen himself.

Now, lying on the couch in my apartment, I closed my eyes as weariness swept through me. It would be so nice to sleep…and sleep—

My cell phone was suddenly and stridently ringing on the coffee table. By the tone, I could tell that it was Father. Presumably, news had reached his ears regarding that portrait I had just bought in Arras. Needless to say, he was not pleased at not having been consulted before the purchase.

I did have every intention of consulting him, only it flew out of my head the moment I saw the portrait's contents.

I stared at the phone in detached wonder as it kept on ringing, and then suddenly it was not ringing anymore. I closed my eyes again.

_Good…please, just leave me alone for a while…_

But I knew it was not going to work. They were never going to leave me alone. If they couldn't reach me now, they could reach me later. Or worse. They could reach somebody else.

I picked up the phone and dialed his number on auto.

"Bon soir," he answered.

"Andre, where are you?" I asked without opening my eyes.

He sighed. "I am being summoned to your parents' house ASAP," he answered in a resigned voice.

"He wouldn't even talk to you over the phone?"

"Apparently, no."

"I'll be on my way then. Might as well have dinner there. There's absolutely nothing to eat in this apartment," I said and hung up.

As tired as I was, I couldn't let Father tear Andre to pieces in my place.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** It is very difficult to decide on the names of the characters as they live in the present. For Louis Auguste, also known as Louis XVI, I have cut the name short to Auguste. The "Brun" in de Brun is actually translated as "brown", which is what Bourbon means. Antoinette's surname is taken from the name of the House of Marie Antoinette's father—Lorraine. As for Fersen and Oscar, I have decided to change their names. An explanation will unfold in the succeeding chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** The details of Andre's dream and perceptions of the portrait are lifted from the RoV anime, while the last scene is taken from the manga. I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Reviews are welcome.

~~~~~@~~~~~

We reached her parents' house almost at the same time- she in her car, I in my motorcycle. The de la Saigne mansion was almost to the outskirts of Paris, and the ride frequently took almost an hour from downtown.

The house was an imposing structure- complete with gardens and a fountain- dating back to the latter half of the eighteenth century, and had seen considerable wreckage during the Revolution. The de la Saignes had bought the property late into the nineteenth century, with gradual and painstaking restoration finally setting it into what it could have appeared in its heyday in the ancien regime. There was no stopping some imposition from modern technology, though. From the dark gravel road outside, the windows were lit by the warm glow of lamps from the inside.

"You don't have to come. I can handle this," I said as the Boss alighted from the car and strode leisurely over to me.

She responded by raising a sardonic brow. "And tell my father what? That I just splurged a few hundred thousand euros for a painting?" she asked, amused. "I think I'd better do the talking if you still want us to see the light of day tomorrow, Andre."

That said, she started for the main door as I trailed behind her. It was just like her to hurry into the rescue, when no rescue was actually needed here.

"You ready?" she asked me in a mock-severe tone as she rang the doorbell and went in first, as customary.

"Oh, Mademoiselle Francoise!" I could hear Granny greet her as she stepped in. "It's so good to see you this evening!"

Francoise laughed as she took her nanny's hands. "I'm hungry," she announced and tossed her head casually to my side, "and I'm sure Andre hasn't had dinner too."

"Andre and I are going to have a nice, long talk afterwards," said Granny in an ominously meaningful tone, and I sighed inwardly. Of course, that meant that I was in trouble. She gave me a hard pinch as I bent down to peck on her cheek.

"Francoise," a pleasant voice called from the top of the grand staircase. Turning, we saw Madame coming down the steps slowly with her hands outstretched.

I watched as daughter bent down to kiss mother, and I couldn't help but be struck with the similarities and differences between the two. True, Francoise had inherited those glorious, golden locks from her mother, but how could it be possible for Madame- so frail and delicate-looking- to have given birth to such a tall, striking Amazon of a woman as the Boss?

Francoise was not conventionally beautiful—if one were looking for the delicate, china-bone face and figure- but her height and carriage, her large, expressive blue eyes, the high cheekbones and the full, sensuous mouth all combined to ensure that heads (men's and women's, at that) turned when she went by. And that intelligent demeanor, in which confidence and self-assurance were very much in evidence, held depths that had room for humor and mischief when she chose to indulge in them. All this combined could drive an admirer to distraction, and there were many.

Francoise spoke very gently to her mother as she always did, and Madame suddenly brought up her head. "Ah, Andre," she said, and I was glad to hear the warm note of welcome in her voice. "So good of you to come. You will have dinner with us, then."

"I'll take it from here, Andre," said Francoise as she ascended the stairs. She turned back to her mother. "Where's Papa?"

"In the library," said her mother. "He's been waiting for you, actually."

And that left me with nothing to do but to accompany Granny.

"Really, Andre," she started her scolding as soon as Francoise and Madame were out of earshot. "At the very least, you could have advised Mademoiselle against making such a rash decision in one afternoon. Monsieur has done nothing but rant and rave about it the whole evening."

"Me!" I asked as I followed her into the kitchens. "Do you think she ever listens to me once she's made her mind up? Besides, you weren't there to see the picture, Gran."

She turned to eye me curiously then. "What's in the picture?" she asked suspiciously.

"Francoise," I answered. "She's in that picture—a picture that's over two hundred years old. All the details—right down to the last strand of golden hair. It was Francoise, only she's dressed as this ancient warrior on horseback. Can you believe it?"

There was a short, startled silence.

"My goodness," was the only thing Granny could think to say. She was silent for a moment more before she continued, "perhaps it is an ancestral painting. You know the de la Saignes are descended from the nobility before the Revolution…"

"-That they left during the Reign of Terror and came back to France after the restoration of the monarchy," I finished. "I know, Gran. The possibility that the painting might have once belonged to the family has also occurred to me. I'm sure Francoise must have thought of it as well, but I haven't seen Francoise want anything so badly as this painting."

Even if it were a striking portrait of a long-forgotten ancestor, what was the chance that one ever got to see a mirror image of oneself in an ancient canvas?

But that wasn't the only mystery. Ever since I first looked upon the oil painting that afternoon, I felt as though something were not right. I could say in all honesty that I had never seen that particular picture before in my life, but another one kept slipping into my mind—a portrait of the same beautiful figure in battle dress, only, she wasn't riding a horse. She was in a field of white roses with the horse galloping beside her.

It was madness! I was sure I had never seen that particular picture before either. Why it was suddenly popping up, unbidden, in my head was something I could not quite explain.

Just then, a maid entered to say that the family was coming down to dinner.

That's awfully quick, I thought as I went out of the bustling kitchens. It was just one example of how good Francoise was in turning people around to her cause. I must ask her to fill me in on how she managed to convince her father to accept her purchase.

 

But first, dinner.

With the five elder sisters now married and settled, only Monsieur and Madame were left to have meals in the grand dining room. Francoise would join them when she chanced to visit or stay for the weekend and she usually dragged me along to the table for company.

By the time I got there, they were already seated. Monsieur, recently mollified but still looking a bit disgruntled, had already gone into another topic of conversation as he asked Francoise about news from the latest board meeting.

"—Girodelle seems to be making headway with the British and German accounts," I heard Francoise say as I came in. "Everyone upstairs is very pleased with his performance. I gather he might just be promoted to a position in the head office if all goes well. Which reminds me-" Here, she turned to me, "Andre, do come along to my room after dinner and let us work out the schedule for next week. I may need to ask Rosalie to come over as well tomorrow."

I nodded to show that I understood and, turning to the head of the table, murmured my greetings to her father. Monsieur nodded briefly at my direction before talk recommenced along the latest news from the office. I took my usual place beside Francoise.

All through the long dinner, the conversation never veered once into the subject of the painting. Afterwards, a bit of work started as soon as we reached Francoise's bedroom suite.

Seated by the sofa at her anteroom, we started the usual routine of sifting through her tight schedule for the coming week. There were the business meetings; best left to Rosalie to arrange, as well as the after-hours obligations whose details I had to attend to. Apart from that, there were all sorts of errands to do and calls to make to ensure that she went from one engagement to the next without a hitch.

I worked through it all patiently, knowing that my reward would come at the end of these meetings. Tonight, it came a little after midnight, after I had announced that everything was in order.

Francoise leaned back on the sofa and gave a weary sigh. "Thank you, Andre," she said. "We've got a tough week ahead, don't we?"

"We do," I agreed, "but now is not the time to worry about it yet. Will you be staying here for the weekend?"

"Probably, as I go back to the office on Monday," she answered. "Can you stay until tomorrow? I can ask Rosalie to join us for breakfast."

"It depends on whether Granny has got some of my old shirts in store, otherwise I will have nothing to wear," I said.

We burst out laughing. It felt good to hear her laugh. It had been a while since we last had some time to talk about things not related to work.

I cleared my throat and asked," Well? What happened with your meeting with Monsieur?"

She let out an amused laugh. "He was furious," she said as she reached for some wine on the nearby table, "but I said the money is coming out of my own pocket, and I shall have the painting at my place. Naturally he has nothing to say to that."

"And the picture?" I asked, trying to keep my tone casual, "did you tell him about that?"

"I did," she said. "He says he knows of no surviving family or ancestral portraits since everybody got out of France during the Revolution. I suppose whatever they could take along, they did. The rest, they had to leave behind. If this were indeed a part of the family's collection, I can understand why they had to leave it behind."

I smiled at the idea. "Aren't you at least a little bothered by seeing that woman's picture?" I asked gently.

She was silent for a moment. Then she shook her head stubbornly, as if chasing away an unwelcome thought. "We probably won't find any explanation to it," she said. "I guess it does happen once in a while that you get to see a doppleganger of yourself in this world, or in the past…"

Here, her words trailed off. There was a pause as she looked at me, her blue eyes turning serious. "Andre…" she began.

"Yes?"

The troubled look lifted from her eyes as suddenly as it had appeared and she smiled as she shook her head. "Nothing," she finally said. "It's getting late. Let's call it a night, shall we?"

~~~~~@~~~~~

The night passed swiftly. Troubled dreams came and went without really registering; but on that one instant before I came fully awake, I remembered a fragment of my last dream…of a young, golden-haired woman on horseback telling me sharply that she didn't need me anymore and that I go away. With a crack of her whip, she then rode off, heedless of my anguished shout. I was calling her name…

Her name…

When I woke up, I found myself drenched in a cold sweat, heart hammering away in my chest. I felt…as though…I were dealing with a great loss. Heartbreak. The feeling was so sharp, so real, that I almost remembered the name that I had shouted in my dream, but it ebbed from my memory as the last traces of sleep left me.

So real…so very familiar…

As I lowered my hand from my face, I could see that I was back in familiar surroundings. I had passed the night in the mansion, on the bed inside the room that I had used since I came here as a boy. Sunlight streamed in from the tall window. It was still pretty early. I had not overslept, but outside my door the bustle of activity signified that the day had already started several hours ago in the servants' quarters.

On a chair beside my bed were my work clothes, clean and neatly pressed.

Gran…

There was hardly time to lose. Quickly, I got out of bed and made my way to the common bathroom outside. A quick shower and a change of clothes, and then I was out to look for Francoise.

As I emerged from the servants' quarters onto one of the corridors in the ground floor of the house, I saw her just as she was striding out of one of the rooms. She was dressed in her fencing clothes, face serious as she talked into her cell phone. She finished the call and came over to me.

"Rosalie will be coming over shortly," she announced.

"You've finished with your lessons?" I asked as I eyed her outfit. Fencing was more than a hobby for the Boss. It was a passion. If she could spare some time, like today for instance, it was certain she would have a sword in hand.

"Yes, I've sent the instructor on his way," she said. Then her tone became mischievous as she continued, "but if you would care to put the time in waiting for Rosalie to good use, we can have a quick match in the garden."

Something must be wrong with me this morning. The strangest feeling of deja vu was sweeping over me so strongly that I could not concentrate in my attempts to parry her skilled sword.

At first she had teased, "What's the matter with you, Andre? Seriously, you cannot consider losing to me just yet. I'm just warming up here!" After a moment, when my disorientation must have become obvious, she lowered her sword and asked in concern, "are you alright?"

I nodded, panting. I let my arms drop to my sides as I squinted into the sunlight, at the deep blue bowl of the sky overhead, before bringing my gaze back to the figure before me. What was this feeling? I felt as if I had done this before—engaging in sword practice with Francoise in the gardens-not just several times when we had the time, but hundreds…perhaps thousands of mornings in the past.

I heard the Boss repeat her question as she approached me. The feeling departed me as suddenly as it had come.

"Yes, I'm okay," I said as I set aside my sword.

She continued to stare at me for a moment or two, troubled eyes searching mine, before she smiled and let it go. "I know just the thing to set you to rights," she said as she turned away. "Breakfast!"

For today, she had requested that breakfast be taken outdoors. As we settled down to coffee and croissants in the bright garden, we heard a voice call from the distance, "Francoise! Andre!"

"Ah, Rosalie is here!" Francoise said as we saw her approach.

As was their custom when out of the office, the two women embraced, laughing. Rosalie, like me, was considered practically a part of the family. The days were long passed when she had initially addressed Francoise as Mademoiselle, much to Francoise's amusement and vexation.

Petite and pretty, Rosalie Lamorielle had been seventeen years old when she had applied for a university scholarship sponsored by the company. At the time, she had been hard-pressed for funds, what with an absent father and a chronically ill mother who was constantly in and out of the hospital. It had not been long before she caught the eye of the Boss herself, and a close friendship had sprung between them.

Even with the backing of the company, poor Rosalie had not been able to complete her studies. As her mother grew slowly but steadily worse for a period of time, she had been obliged to drop out of university and the scholarship program to take care of her mama. Again, the problem of funds had been overwhelming for a teenage girl who was supposed to be enjoying her first year in university.

That was when Francoise had stepped in to offer her a position as her secretary in the company. It had been a way to help her out of her financial difficulties. Aside from work to put her mind off her worries, Rosalie would be able to earn enough to foot her mother's hospital bills and engage a nurse to be with her while Rosalie was in the office.

And so things had remained for the last five years. There would be periods when her mother would get better, and times when she would be worse, and Rosalie had stayed at her job. Needless to say, Rosalie was absolutely devoted to the Boss. Tidy and methodical in her ways, she had cheerfully applied herself to the task of assisting Francoise.

Now as she took a seat at the breakfast table, she chatted animatedly about the latest goings-on in the company.

"Alain de Soisson has been very insistent in setting a meeting with you…again," Rosalie began, and the Boss turned to me and rolled her eyes heavenward.

Alain was really a big pain in the ass, a very outspoken and trying manager whom Francoise just couldn't fire because he was very good at his work. Secretly, I suspected his plots to provoke Francoise had more than a bit of that exasperating, childish impulse to annoy a crush. It was good to see that Francoise wasn't biting into his bait or I didn't know what I would have done to the man.

"He wanted to have your cell number," continued Rosalie, "but I told him I'd pass his messages on to you."

"Very good," said Francoise with a smile as she perused her schedule for the coming week. "What he has to say can wait until I get back to the office. Besides, he's got my email address so why doesn't he just write me? By the way, the staff meeting is on Monday?"

"Yes, as scheduled at 4:30 pm," answered Rosalie.

"Is Fersen attending?" Francoise asked.

And Fersen was somebody else again.

I looked up at the question, but the Boss had turned to Rosalie and I could not quite catch her expression.

Rosalie apparently suspected nothing. "Yes, he has confirmed that he will be there," she said.

Francoise merely nodded and moved on to the rest of the itinerary. There were numerous meetings to set down and plans to be made. Daytime office schedules were Rosalie's responsibilities, and all the rest were mine.

"You should eat something before you go," the Boss told Rosalie as we finally concluded the meeting.

"I'll drop you off at the office," I offered Rosalie. "I have to go downtown to arrange for tickets to the theater on Friday, as well as that affair on Saturday."

Francoise nodded. "You guys know where to reach me if anything happens," she said as she took a sip of her coffee. "But let's eat some more first!"

The rest of the weekend had been a blur, all because there had not been any more calls from the Boss. Perhaps she had intended to give us a short break before the start of the week.

 

This left me with the entire Sunday in my rented apartment with nothing to do and I found myself being haunted by details from the fragment of the dream that I recently had. What was it about this dream that disturbed me so? Was it because it spoke volumes in terms of my not-so-subconscious anxieties of being cast aside by Francoise?

It was ridiculous, of course, but I had to admit that I sometimes did worry about Francoise not needing me anymore. It was particularly painful when I worried about her falling in love with somebody else, like Fersen.

But I did not want to think about that just now.

Aside from being a mirror of my anxieties, the dream held something else that was even more disturbing. Why did I feel that I had had that dream before? And why Francoise was dressed in a white military uniform distinctly not of the present time was something I could not quite fathom.

Thus, I was actually glad when Monday came around and I had to concentrate at work.

The workday went by very swiftly, with the Boss hurrying from one meeting to the next as soon as she stepped into the office. She took Rosalie with her and I was practically glued to the computer and the telephone in her office, as she would periodically send me a text message from her meetings to inform me of new activities or changes in her schedule.

I was at the computer when an unexpected visitor dropped by the office in the late afternoon.

"Andre," he called, smiling as he came over with his secretary in tow. "So good to see you again. How have you been?"

I rose from my seat to shake his hand. "Very well, thank you. She's already downstairs at the main conference room," I said to Lars Fersen. It was clear that he had just arrived from the de Brun offices.

Tall, handsome and sophisticated, Fersen was also friendly and thoroughly likeable. Well-read and well traveled, serious when work was concerned, he had a great sense of fun and knew how to unwind after all the work was done. Unlike several of the company executives I had to work with, there was no trace of superciliousness about him, which was probably why Francoise liked him so much. And had it not been for Francoise liking him just a bit too much, I would have liked him immensely, too.

…!

Just listen to yourself, Andre…! Did you really just think that!

"Oh, so soon?" he asked, oblivious to my train of thoughts. "I was hoping to have a word with her before we go down."

 

"She's been in several meetings since this morning," I said politely, hoping to make up for my last, rude thought of him.

He shook his head sympathetically. "All right. I'll catch her downstairs then. Thanks, Andre," he said and turned away.

I stared after his retreating figure for a while before I turned my attention back to the screen in front of me. The hours ticked by, and the light was fading from the windows when Rosalie came back from the meeting.

"You're still here?" she asked in surprise as I looked up from the computer.

"Lots of work to be done," I merely said. "Where's the Boss?"

"Gone to have an early dinner with Monsieur Fersen," said Rosalie as she retrieved her bag and coat. "She told us to go on ahead."

"Oh."

There must have been something in my tone that made Rosalie pause. Or perhaps she had suspected something all along through the years, for she placed a hand on my shoulder and gave me a light squeeze.

"Don't stay up too late," she said simply before she bade me goodbye.

I sat there for a while, silently cursing myself for feeling like a lovelorn teenager. The cartoonists were not kidding though when they portrayed a sinking heart as one plunging down to the level of one' shoes.

The rational part of me was arguing that people had dinner with other people all the time. It wasn't supposed to mean anything serious. The other part of me that simply refused to give way to reason had only one thought to offer, and it asked again and again inside my head: how simple…how could it be so simple-so effortless-for some people to get to a person's heart, when others would try for years and not be able to make it?

For a while, I lay back on the chair and closed my eyes. _Enough…that's enough_ , I told myself sternly after counting to ten. I sat back straight and continued working at the computer; all the while resisting the urge to call her or send a text message by cell phone that was growing by the minute. Whatever could I say anyway?

If work could provide the temporary anesthetic, then I was prepared to give it my all tonight. But after two more hours of clearing out various tasks and assignments my stomach was protesting, making my leave from work inevitable.

As I turned off the computer and shrugged into my coat, my last surprise for the day came about.

"Ever the hardworking and dependable Andre," I heard her remark a few yards away from me.

I started and whipped around. There she stood, leaning against the door as she continued to regard me with amusement.

"I thought you've gone to have dinner with Fersen," I said as she came forward.

"I already did," she said. "I just forgot to bring some files with me and I thought I might as well come back to get them."

I watched as she walked past me and collected several folders on her table. As we headed for the elevator, she broke the silence by saying, "he's decided to go back to Sweden tomorrow."

"He's—Fersen's leaving for Sweden?" I asked, incredulous and—heaven forbid-somewhat relieved at the news. There was nothing about him a few hours ago to suggest that he was leaving France. Of course, I had my suspicions why he would think of going.

"Does Mademoiselle Antoinette know?"

It was a mistake to ask.

Francoise went very still upon hearing this question. Then, in a tightly controlled voice, she answered, "I don't think she'll be able to stop him. And you are not to say anything to anyone about this. Do you understand?"

"Of course," I said, slightly taken aback by her tone.

We went down the elevator and out of the quiet building. Outside, the chilly night sky was already studded with stars. I waited silently beside her, expecting her to dismiss me.

"Where do you go drinking in your spare time?" She suddenly asked.

"Montparnasse, usually," I said, caught off guard.

"Take me there, then," she said as we headed for her car. "You'll want to have dinner as well."

I could tell that she was upset. She was intent on drinking long and hard tonight. And that meant that I had to navigate myself as though I were in a minefield.

Francoise was strange that way when she became drunk. There was no use prying any secrets out of her, as no amount of liquor could induce her to talk. Rather, she would turn either hot-headed or boisterous.

Luckily tonight, she chose to be the latter.

"Look, Andre," she suddenly said after we had downed a couple of rounds in a brightly lit bar in Place Pablo Picasso, "those women to your left."

"What?" I turned a fraction to the direction she had indicated. I was just in time to see a couple of women smile at our direction. I turned back to Francoise with an inquiring look.

"Can't you see they've been checking you out for quite some time now?" Francoise said as she burst out laughing.

"No they're not!" I said, startled.

"Yes, they were! How clueless can you get?" She seemed to find my confusion most amusing.

"What makes you so sure they weren't checking you out?" I countered.

She scoffed. "Why would they want to check me out?" she returned as she drained her fifth glass of wine.

_Because you're magnificent and fiery and so very beautiful…_

"Why not? Don't women check each other out every once in a while?"

She gave me a dry look. "They do, but not for long. Especially when there's a guy around." Her tone suddenly turned teasing. "Really now, Andre, you mean to say you've never risen to a come-on made by a woman in a bar? I mean, I'm sure you've gotten loads. "

No, I've never risen to any invitation by a woman, I thought. And I just wish you know why. "I'm not getting a come-on from these women right now," was what I decided to say instead.

"But supposing you did?" she persisted. "Or better yet, show me how you make one."

I stared at her. "You've had too many drinks," I said flatly.

She shook her head. "No use wriggling your way out of this one, Andre. I'm not stopping until you show me!"

I let out the sigh I'd been holding back. There was no use dodging it. Better to get it over with rather than have her pester me for the rest of the evening about it.

"Well," I said, affecting the air of a very patient teacher, "if I did happen to come across somebody I like, I'd probably look at her a great deal. I probably won't be able to stop myself."

There was a pause as we stared at each other. "And…?" she finally prompted.

"Until she notices that I've been looking at her," I finally answered, my gaze never leaving her. "That's when I would smile. If she smiles back, then a conversation is in order. Once that gets started, who knows where it will lead to?"

"Where indeed, I wonder?" She tilted her glass elegantly to her mouth and took a shot of her drink, neat and experienced.

"If I do like somebody very much, I'd probably want to spend a lot of time with her. I'd feel very sad if we're apart for long," I said a bit recklessly.

"In short, you'll be very devoted. The perfect, old-fashioned gentleman," she finished, smiling. "Wow, I envy your girlfriends. They're so lucky, Andre."

And with that, she finished her sixth glass and called cheerily for the bartender to hand her another drink. I felt I couldn't take any more and I pushed my glass away.

~~~~~@~~~~~

_"The perfect, old-fashioned gentleman."_

I could still hear the phrase ringing in the air as I finally bundled her into the car. I supposed that she had meant it as a compliment, but why was it stinging so much? Even more important, why was I sure she'd never regard Lars Fersen as of the same category?

Fersen, I was sure, would be the alluring, worldly, slightly mysterious type of man that could send levelheaded women like Francoise into a swoon. Perfect, old-fashioned (i.e. boring) gentlemen were relegated to the Andre Grandiers of this world.

After so many years of disappointment heaped one on top of the other, you'd suppose that I would have gotten used to it all by now. But I tell you it doesn't work that way. To be in love and be perpetually disappointed means having a wound that gets ripped open anew even before it has a chance to heal. It will never heal, so long as I do not stop loving Francoise. And to stop loving Francoise is like having to stop breathing.

In no time at all we had arrived at her apartment. I parked the car and, turning to her, saw that she had fallen asleep on the seat beside me. Her head had tilted to her side, cheeks flushed from that alarming amount of wine drunk throughout the evening. Right there, all the disappointment fled from me, leaving only a trace of sadness and regret that I had been foolish to think the way that I did.

After a while, I tore my gaze away and sighed. From some remote place in my brain came that story I had read as a child—the Greek myth of Endymion and the moon goddess, Selene. Very much taken with Endymion, the handsome shepherd, the goddess had contrived to make him sleep for eternity so that she would have him all to herself. But that very act had also ensured that Selene could only content herself with the sleeping form of her beloved, and very little else.

Francoise was no Endymion, no more than I could ever be the moon goddess, but I could sympathize with Selene's plight. A sleeping Francoise was all I could ever have to myself, and in that, I would have to be perfectly content.

I slowly got out of the car and managed to get her to stand up long enough for me to sling her arm around my neck. Half dragging and half carrying my precious cargo into her apartment building was no simple feat. She was so out of it that her full, dead weight was upon me, and her legs were like jelly.

Inside the building I gave up and, bringing an arm under her legs, lifted her cleanly off the floor. Thus I was able to carry her in my arms into the elevator and all the way to her front door. I let myself in using the key that she had given me for emergency purposes, and crossing the silent living room, deposited her into her bedroom suite.

She lay still as I removed her shoes and tucked her into the bed sheets. As I straightened up, I saw that loose strands of golden hair had fallen across her sleeping features. I slowly lifted a hand to brush them away.

She looked so beautiful then that I could not stop what happened next.

Almost before I realized what I was doing, I found myself bending over her. Close…closer than I had ever done before…and pressed my lips to hers.

How long had I been fantasizing about this? Just about forever, I thought. I couldn't believe that I had actually done it.

She tasted the way I had imagined she would: sweet—not just with the wine, but also with herself.

Finally, regretfully, I raised my head and figured that it was time for me to depart. Just then, as I made to stand up, I saw something glisten on her cheeks.

She's crying…

A trail of tears was slowly winding its way down from her closed lids. An unusual occurrence.

 _Poor Francoise, to find no recourse but to cry in her dreams_ …I thought. Hesitantly, I brushed the moisture away with a thumb, wondering what she was dreaming about to make her cry so. Fersen, I suspected.

The stars were still out when I finally left the apartment building. They were shining like droplets of tears suspended on a curtain of black, velvety night.

It was the plight of every man and woman born into this world to shed tears and feel heartbreak; but for once, tonight, my heart was suddenly quiet and content.


	4. Chapter 4

  **Author's Notes** : Two personalities in this chapter are lifted from real persons: Fersen's boss in Sweden, Gustav (currently still without a surname), is patterned after Gustavus III (in real life an eighteenth century Swedish monarch and contemporary of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette); while Madame du Deffand was a very well-known Parisian marquise and society hostess in eighteenth century France whose stylish and brilliantly intelligent parties were considered must-go events. 

* * *

 

Perhaps the solution to quell the disturbing dreams was to inebriate myself every night like I just did, for upon waking up this morning I had no recollection of having dreamed at all last night. 

But the headache…oh, the excruciating, pounding headache! Surely I could not afford to have hangovers every morning! And to think today was only Tuesday! As I raised my head feebly from the pillows, pain shot through my eyes, causing me to slump back down onto the soft cushions and groan.

"This is so _not_ worth it!" I heard myself say thickly.

It really was not, for as soon as I woke up, all the memories of that horrible dinner with Fersen had come flooding back. All the details that drink had temporarily blunted in my mind were now coming back into sharp focus.

Perhaps the most unforgettable detail of them all was the look on Fersen's face as I asked him point blank over the _Fricassée de Veau aux Girolles_ , "do you love her?"

That frozen look…I could not imagine him being taken unawares by anything, but that look had spoken volumes.

_So he really does love her…_

Being Fersen, he had rallied almost immediately. His face softening into a sad smile, he said, "I see. I can guess where our talk is heading."

"If you know what this is all about then it will not be too difficult for me to say it," I said. It was a weakness of mine to bulldoze my way out of an uncomfortable situation. Andre might have admonished me for being too blunt if he were only present, but I saw very little point in beating around the bush with this issue. "Personally, I am not one to meddle into any business of yours or Antoinette's—"

He held up a hand. "But you feel compelled to warn me that I am overstepping my limits with the fiancée of my future boss," he finished.

There was a pause as I tried to collect myself. Evidently, Fersen was not so easy to offend as I had at first thought. Very well. It would indeed make things much simpler.

"I would not have put it _that_ bluntly," I finally answered, "but yes, everything just about boils down to that. I think you may want to consider going back to Sweden earlier than planned...for the sake of the companies."

He looked down at his hands as they rested on the table and sighed heavily. "I know there isn't any excuse for my actions with Antoinette. I have none to offer," he said. "Only…she has been so good to me…so kind. I had no intention of falling in love, but it…just happened…"

I could not bear to look at him just then. His last words were ringing in my ear: " _It…just happened…"_

I can remember saying that to myself just the other day, Fersen…I said it with you in mind…

"She is so beautiful, so vulnerable," he continued, and I watched as his hands slowly balled into fists on the table, "I've never felt so protective of anyone before. Can you understand me, Francoise?"

I cannot say I can, Fersen…

"Has somebody been spreading rumors?" he asked as I remained silent.

I shook my head. "There has been none—yet," I said, and I was glad to hear that my voice had remained steady. "Which is why I think now is the best time to leave. Antoinette—I can understand that her position has always been a difficult one ever since the first day she came. We can say that she deserves to break away every now and then, but this…there's just too much at stake. I am hoping that you will be the one to understand. "

He was silent for a moment before he took a deep breath, such as a diver would have done before plunging into deep waters. "I do understand," he said at last, "and I am most grateful for your frankness. You are so strong and capable, I am sure Antoinette would be in good hands with you around."

He extended a hand. "Take care of her, Francoise," he said.

"I will," I said as I took his hand.

The handshake was firm and brief, and then he took his leave by saying, "You must excuse me. I must hurry home to pack if I were to catch the flight tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" I had meant him to leave as soon as possible, but surely there was no need to schedule an immediate departure.

Fersen smiled. "I may not go away at all if I put it off any longer. Besides, Gustav has been asking in his emails when my return to Sweden might be. Do not worry about it. You can tell everyone that the head of the Swedish office has been asking me most urgently to go back," he said.

There was a pause as we looked at each other for a moment.

"I'm sure this is not the last time we will be seeing each other, Francoise," he said. "Au revoir, mon ami."

_Au revoir, Fersen…_

When Fersen had gone, I realized that my appetite had also disappeared to be replaced by a new, piercing ache in the chest that made breathing difficult.

I had done it. Done what I thought was best for Antoinette, for the companies. And I had done it for myself, before things got too painfully obvious. It had been frightening to feel this outrageous lack of control in myself where he was concerned. It had been the first time this had ever happened to me. With him gone, then maybe I could get back the equilibrium that I had lost since he came onto the scene.

But I had waited in vain for the relief that I was supposed to feel.

_Francoise, you are such a fool…_

I had outdone myself with the query. Finally, I had the answers to the questions that had slowly been eating at me for the past few months. But what had I expected? Didn't he say so himself that he saw in Antoinette somebody he needed to protect?

Protection…

All my life, I had not needed anything. Least of all _that_.

I hated to admit it, but the interview with Fersen had left me raw and exposed. The thought of going home to my empty apartment had suddenly seemed abhorrent. Just then, I had remembered that in my haste to get Fersen out of the office where the walls had ears, I had left behind the files that were supposed to keep me occupied for the entire evening.

Upon returning to the office, I had been surprised to find the lights still on. Relief had surged through me at the sight of Andre as he prepared to make his departure. I had wanted to tell him everything then and there, but I had resisted giving in to the impulse at the last minute. I had figured it would be better not to drag him into the whole sordid mess.

But Andre had been too observant even without my saying much to him. It had taken everything in me not to pounce on him when he had innocently asked if Antoinette knew that Fersen was leaving. If Andre had noticed, who else could have?

At least, I could trust Andre to be discreet. Still, it had left me shaken, and I badly needed to forget. To forget at least for a while…

Poor Andre. I could not remember leaving the bar at all. How had he managed to drag me all the way from Montparnasse to my apartment? Now, with the harsh morning sun beating down from the windows, I could see that I had been tucked snugly into bed.

I could not seem to remember anything after we left the bar.

No…I did remember something.

I remembered feeling something during the night. Something warm had brushed itself across my lips and pressed itself for a time against my mouth. And it had felt so comforting…so warm. It was so good that I had felt like crying.

I brushed my fingers wonderingly across my lips as I sat up slowly on the bed, feeling my brows come together in a frown. Perhaps I had remembered a fragment of a dream after all.

The shrill ringing of my cell phone abruptly dispelled the haziness in my mind, bringing me sharply back to the present.

"Wake up call," came the familiar voice down the line.

"I'm already awake, thank you very much," I snapped without really intending to, and I heard him chuckle good-naturedly.

"Good. Rosalie may have already informed you that your first appointment is at 8:15 today, but after nine glasses of wine last night, I felt I'd better remind you just to be sure," he said.

"Oh God," I moaned. "No wonder the headache is so bad! I'd better get a move on. I'll see you in the office, Andre."

As I rushed about the apartment, a thought briefly surfaced in my mind before a hundred others supplanted it: whatever would I do without Andre?

* * *

"Ta-daaaa…." Sang Rosalie, flourishing a fresh copy of Vogue in front of me as soon as I entered the office. "Just in newsstands this morning."

 

There were the two-page spread and the short interview that they had done on me over a month ago as they prepared an article on "successful and stylish women executives" from several top Paris firms.

I could remember the day when all that fuss had been made as they transformed the office into a mini-studio to get the lighting just right. The photographer had wanted me to lounge catlike halfway across my desktop for extra effect. Needless to say, I had declined, so they had shot me the way I had appeared on the page that Rosalie had opened: half leaning, half sitting on the desk with a hand resting on the table's edge. Amidst files artfully cluttered on the desk (which I would never have allowed in reality), I was contemplating an elaborate arrangement of white roses in a vase beside me.

"The roses are stunning," I remarked as I glanced absently at the glossy magazine, and Rosalie dropped her arms in disappointment.

"Is that the only thing you can say to your gorgeous article!" she cried, seemingly affronted at the sacrilege I had committed in not paying close attention to Vogue.

"If it's going to help make the next board meeting any easier, I might be persuaded to say a little bit more about it," I said in a fit of bad temper, and I could see Rosalie's mouth drop into an unhappy line. Poor dear.

"You must excuse the Boss today," said Andre airily as he came up from behind Rosalie. "She's had a rough night."

I paused from arranging the folders Rosalie had given me for the meetings ahead and shot him a withering look. "Don't start," I warned.

Andre smiled gently as he placed a glass of water and some medicine tablets on the table. "I think these might help," he said. "For the headache."

"Thanks," I mumbled as I gingerly took the pills. "Dammit, but I feel as though my eyes are being gouged out by a pair of red-hot pokers."

As Rosalie moved away to get her writing pad ready for the first appointment, Andre sat down on the chair facing my table. "He's really leaving early in the afternoon," he said quietly. "I got word from his secretary."

"So he says," I stated calmly as I opened the first folder from the pile on my table and started perusing the contents.

I could feel Andre staring at me as I continued browsing through the file, but he did not ask any questions, and I was mercifully spared from doing anything rash first thing in the morning.

I was to see no respite as the day dragged on and on. In the afternoon, I was obliged to attend a meeting with our chief accountant, M. Dagout, at the de Brun offices to report on the quarter's budget. In the large conference room, filled with familiar faces from all the affiliate offices including those of Louis and Auguste de Brun, one face was conspicuously absent.

His sudden departure was but a brief sentence in the opening remarks of the meeting's moderator before the assembly started to confer in earnest. Could it be that I were the only one to feel his absence?

_And to feel it so keenly, too…_

I could not wait for everything to be over. The effects of Andre's painkillers were starting to wear off, and I could feel the headache coming back with a vengeance.

Finally, the meeting came to its conclusion. As people started filing out of the doors, I got held back when I heard somebody calling my name.

"Francoise." A deep, cool male voice.

I turned around to look for the source of the voice, and I did a double take.

"Victor," I said. "Whatever did you do to your hair?"

Victor Clement de Girodelle was the managing director of the telecommunications business of de Brun, very capable and very ambitious. A long-time acquaintance, he was ahead of me by one year in business school. He was also quite a fashion plate, with impeccable taste in clothes and his coldly handsome and patrician features constantly undergoing changes every time I saw him.

Right now, he had decided to let down his long, wavy brown hair instead of restraining it with a tie. Admittedly it was not bad.

He merely smiled at my remark and said, "I saw your Vogue article. You look positively radiant."

"Oh, that. All done with mirrors," I said lightly while I wondered deep down how he could make his words sound like I were an ornamental doll. Perhaps I just got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning, or perhaps I was getting paranoid. From the way he looked though, Girodelle was far better equipped to grace the covers of those fashion magazines than I. "Congratulations on the British and German deals, by the way."

He fell into step beside me as I made my way down to the lobby. "Coming from you that is indeed a compliment. Thank you. Will you be attending Madame du Deffand's cocktail party next weekend?" he asked.

"I probably will not be able to," I said as I took out my phone and started typing a message to Andre.

"It's a shame-" Victor was saying when a de Brun assistant came hurrying over.

"Madame," the assistant said as she handed me a folded, cream-colored card.

I could feel Girodelle's pale eyes on me as I read the short message. Willing my face to remain expressionless, I finally looked up and murmured my excuses to him.

"Lead the way," I told the assistant as I followed her down the corridor.

_Francoise,_ wrote Antoinette. _Can you spare me five minutes of your time?_

* * *

The de Brun head office was known for its massive indoor gardens spanning the entire top floor of the building—one of only a few in Paris. Ordinarily bustling with activity, the gardens had very few people present when I arrived. Walking through the various sections of exotic flowers and plants, I finally came upon her as she sat on one of the small stone benches overlooking a dainty grotto.

She sat so still and straight, head tilted proudly, as she watched the small thread of water coming out of the grotto to trickle down onto the stream at her feet. Only the silvery tinkle of water could be heard.

The thin layer of grass beneath my feet had silenced my approach. "Antoinette," I called softly.

When she turned to me slowly, I could see that she had been weeping.

"I'm sorry to have you come all the way up here, Francoise. You see why I cannot meet you downstairs," she said as she gave me a tremulous smile.

"It's all right," I said automatically, "we can talk here if you like."

I felt my heart sinking horribly at the sight of her tears. Of course I had anticipated that something like this would happen, but I was unprepared for the pain the sight of Antoinette's tears had brought.

I could remember Antoinette's grand introduction to all the employees in this building who would one day be at her husband's command. As was the custom in the company, she had been brought here to meet everyone not long after her engagement with Auguste had been announced.

It had been a tense moment as she waited for the time when she would be called forth to face the crowds in the large function room, and at the very last minute, she had asked for me to stay by her side.

"I'm so nervous!" she confessed as she put an arm around mine. "Will they even like me?"

"You mustn't worry," I reassured her, squeezing her hand. "I'm sure you'll knock them all right over."

And she had, with very little effort. She had been stunned at the warm reception she had received, the cheers that had greeted her the moment she had been presented by Louis. I had been standing just behind her as she met the tumultuous applause. She had been deeply moved by what she had seen.

"You see, Antoinette?" I told her as she turned back to me with streaming eyes and a delighted smile. "To have won the hearts of so many with such ease; I must say it is a talent very few people possess."

And she had wept then.

It was strange how circumstances would change as time went by. Then, as now, I had been here to see her cry. But for different reasons.

"Grandpapa had Auguste attend the board meeting, and I thought I may as well tag along as I have nothing better to do…" she started now in a choked voice then stopped.

There was a short silence before she said simply, "He's left France."

I did not pretend not to understand. "I know," I answered.

"He didn't even say goodbye." She then buried her head in her hands and sobbed. "What is wrong with me, Francoise? He doesn't need to tell me, actually. He's under no obligations. Still…still-"

I closed my eyes. "The office in Sweden needed him back," I said.

I could say no more.

Gradually her sobbing dwindled and she looked up from her hands. I took a seat beside her and followed the direction of her gaze as she stared at the gently gurgling waters before us.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "You must think me a fool for ever confiding in you about this matter. I couldn't help it. This is the last time I'm ever going to cry this way."

"You don't have to restrain yourself in front of me," I answered gently.

"Auguste and Grandpapa must never know of this."

I thought long and hard for a moment, knowing that what I was thinking was along the same dangerous vein that I had assiduously been trying to steer Antoinette and Fersen from. The consequences at this point were grave, but everything depended on the decisions of the future bride of the company's heir.

Antoinette could not possibly be too naïve with the way things were run in this society. Even without my saying so, surely she must know of the hypocritical expectations of many of our acquaintances. There were those who regarded marriage as an extension of office politics—a business partnership more than anything else. Nevertheless, a façade had to be maintained even as husband and wife could and did go about their separate ways and relationships in private.

The trick, they said, lay in knowing just how far people could go without violating society's expectations of them. Indeed, there were many in our acquaintance who could juggle these affairs with the skill and finesse of master performers.

While my opinion on such unions might digress from those of my acquaintances (why marry at all if one could think of other ways—surely there would always be alternatives- to clinch a deal with another party without having to turn to marriage was my personal opinion), such was the state of things, and it looked like it was not going to change any time soon.

As for love and affection, once in a while perhaps one did get to see relationships based on these, but they were few and far in between. If one would rather wait for this kind of thing (sometimes less than once in a lifetime, I would suspect), then it was also dependent on the person's choice.

Could she sacrifice a lucrative merger for love and happiness then?

Aloud I said, "If you wish it to be so, Auguste and Louis will never know. But perhaps you should evaluate what you would really like to do before the wedding takes place. Fersen is but a phone call away if you want him to come back, if that is your wish."

For a moment, I thought she had been turned to stone. She was so still as she sat there and stared at me. Antoinette then shook her head sadly. "Only women like you have choices, Francoise, and I envy you for having them," she said. "I have none."

I shook my head. "That's not true," I pointed out. "Of course you have choices. Everyone has them. There may be difficult ones, but nobody can tell you to do things you do not want to do. But once you've decided on a course of action, then you must be prepared to accept the consequences."

There was a long silence.

"It's too late for me," she finally said. "From the start, it has been too late."

She refused to say anything else again. We looked at the ripples of water for a long time.

* * *

Was I too frank, too idealistic in giving advice to Antoinette? I could not really say. I had been told time and again that I possessed the cold, rational temperament needed in handling business, but I had to admit that this hardheaded practicality was at a loss when applied to matters of the heart. I had not really bothered to think much about the complexity of relationships, as they had not concerned me very much before.

 

True, I had had the occasional boyfriend among the numerous men friends of my acquaintance especially during my days in business school, but none had sustained my interest enough to have anything serious happen.

Call it laughable, but there the matter had stood. The concept of immediate attraction and passion for another was very much overrated, if you were to ask me.

I suspected that people would not believe me if I were to tell them that I received my first and last serious kiss when I was sixteen. It was amusing now to think about it. It had come about when this silly boy had tried to kiss me at a school friend's party.

Pierre (his surname was long forgotten by now) had been a very good-looking guy about the same age as Andre whom I had met and defeated at a fencing tournament in St. Michel's Academy (unlike all my other sisters who had been sent to an exclusive girls' school, Father had sent me along with Andre to a private co-ed academy that was better equipped to turn out students for university and the more competitive _grandes écoles_ ).

Pierre had been suave and sophisticated by secondary school standards, and I had known that he had been trying to get to me for quite some time. That night, out of curiosity, I had allowed him to steer me to the balcony.

Unfortunately, he had been either too drunk or pretty inexperienced himself. The open-mouthed kiss he had tried bestowing on me had been slovenly at best and pretty short in duration, for Andre had arrived at the scene almost immediately to yank him off me.

Andre had been furious, and things would have escalated if I had not put in a word. Apparently, he had imagined that Pierre had attacked me. A ridiculous notion, as I would have been more than able to defend myself. "It's okay," I had told Andre. "I wanted him to kiss me."

Andre had turned and gaped at me as if I had gone mad.

"You heard the lady," Pierre had slurred at Andre triumphantly. He then turned back to me and said, "Now, where were we?"

And I remembered telling him before I walked away, "I said I _wanted_ you to kiss me."

"Are you alright?" Andre had asked sharply as he followed me back into the party. "I leave you for just a few minutes and look what happens!"

"Don't be absurd, Andre. There was no problem, so you don't have to lose your head worrying about it," I had said as I calmly wiped my mouth with my handkerchief.

The kiss had been odd and disgusting. Wet and clumsy, Pierre's lips had not exactly found their target and I had been obliged to wipe the corners of my mouth and chin. It certainly did not seem to have anything in common with those thrilling kisses one saw in the movies. And in the years that followed, the kisses I had received from various men had not induced any excitement or passion at all. In fact, the kiss that I remembered dreaming this morning was more passionate than any that I had ever received in my waking moments. Thus, I had not missed kissing, nor yearned for it as time went by.

Until Fersen came along, that was.

At the thought of him, a wave of incredible sadness and yearning coursed through me and I slumped back on the seat of the car as it made its way back to the office. Beside me, Monsieur Dagout regarded me with a sympathetic eye.

"Headache," I said shortly.

* * *

When I got back to my apartment that evening, the painting was waiting for me in the hall.

 

I had not been expecting it. The sight of it came as a shock. The lady in the portrait looked as she had appeared to me the first time I saw her in Normandy: startlingly alive, as if she were about to leap out of the canvas in her horse. At the sight of her face—the same one that I saw in the mirror everyday—I felt as though I were on the brink of remembering…something.

It was unsettling. I had not realized that the portrait would exert such an effect here in my apartment. Everything else seemed dwarfed by it, including me.

I phoned Andre.

"Yes, I told you the painting was coming today, didn't I?" He said. "I took the liberty of having it placed in the hall."

"I can see that," I said. It had slipped my mind entirely that the painting was due to arrive today. "Can you have it removed, please?"

There was a short pause.

"I'm not sure I heard right," came Andre's reply.

"You did," I said. "Can we have it moved to my parents' house in the meantime? I'm sure Papa would like to see it. He can have it for a while."

There was another short pause. Thank goodness Andre knew me so well, for he only replied, "all right, I will _try_ to call the movers, though heaven knows if they're still willing to move anything at this hour."

I could detect a sigh in his voice; doubtless he must think that I was fond of causing unnecessary trouble. Poor Andre. If only I could tell him what was bothering me, but I doubt if even Andre—a close friend since childhood- would understand. How could he if I myself could not make heads or tails with it?

I murmured my thanks and called Father next to inform him that a surprise was on its way to the mansion.

All the while, the lady on the pale horse continued to look out of her sapphire eyes onto a world that surely must have changed beyond recognition from the one that she had known.

_Who are you and what have you seen in your lifetime? Why do you haunt me so now?_

* * *

Paris began to talk when the wedding invitations finally arrived a week later—the complicated, expensive cards whose sole purpose was to request the honor of one's presence as Auguste Philippe de Brun joined hands with Antoinette Jeanne Lorraine in holy matrimony.

Andre let out a low whistle as he examined the thick card. "The wedding of the century in terms of business deals," he said jokingly.

I did not smile though.

It was finally going to happen. Antoinette, whether she would agree or not to my wording, had made a choice.

* * *

**Glossary:**  

_**Fricassée de Veau aux Girolles** (pronounced: free kah seh / duh / voh / oh / ghee ruhl)_ \- A veal recipe with mushrooms in a creamy white wine sauce.

_**Grandes écoles—**_ known literally as "great schools", they are particular to the French educational system. A student in secondary school may choose to enter university upon graduation, or choose to take up two more years of preparatory classes in order to enter one of these exclusive establishments. The great schools usually specialize in a particular field such as business, engineering or mathematics. The entrance examinations into these schools are considerably more difficult and selective compared to the universities.

 

 


End file.
